3 Years
by 221t-TARDIS-St
Summary: After three years, a lot can change. People grow, some fade. People may go on spectacular adventures, and find true love. . Others loose. They hit a rough spot, and let themselves go too much. A love lost, or a friend gone. For John Watson, it was both. Made for the sherlocksecretsanta! It's a little Christmasy at the end, but meh. T for language mostly, and implied slas


**So there we go! Merry Christmas sherlocksbringingsexyback! Please continue on, and don't forget to review of you have a chance!**

**A.N. **I think we all know I don't own anything, so let's skip the beginning credits.

After three years, a lot can change.

People grow, some fade. People may go on spectacular adventures, and find true love. They might settle down and find a family. A dream job may come along and place itself at your feet, waiting to be lived. Maybe a vacation, a cruise. Moving to a destination across the other side of the planet. Living on an island that you have all to yourself and no one can tell you wrong. Their lives are at its' peak and nothing to stop them from reaching their bliss. Others loose. They hit a rough spot, and let themselves go too much. Bankruptcy and poverty. Illness and death. Divorce and family issues. People may leave and dreams are then crushed.

A love lost, or a friend gone.

For John Hamish Watson, it was both.

For a while, if he sat down and really thought about it, he would agree with the fact he lost an unknown love. He didn't need to say who it was, because he knew it was already painfully obvious. Not just only to himself, but for most of the world. If you asked it directly to his face however, he would most likely disagree. Yet besides the fact it was evident it was a lie, you would always be able to tell. Whether you were a detective or not. It was just how he said it. Not profusely deny it, or mutter something about his sexuality. He would hesitate for a moment, shake his head and give a simple and slightly unstable 'no'.

Yet sometimes, if you were lucky, he would say yes. He would give you a small nod and the quiet curl of his lips would confirm that. He was most indefinably in love with a dead man and he knew it.

And John Watson didn't care at all.

Now, as I said, a lot can happen in three years. For John Watson, nothing particular happened at all. For a year, he spent it mostly in grief. Nothing extravagant like sobbing unconditionally, more or less a period where he did absolutely nothing. He would just sit in his worn-in chair and stare at the one opposite himself, waiting for it to be filled. He would watch until the sun went down and his weary eyes had to strain to make out the silhouette in the dark. He would wish for a remainder of the day until his eyes gave out. And I think we both know he was wishing for the impossible. He was wishing for a dead man to rise from the grave, the unthinkable, a miracle. So he would sit like a statue and wish. When he did move though, it was either to collect a cup of tea left by his mothering landlady, move to the bathroom or go to sleep. And to tell the truth he didn't do any of those things very often. Whether it was because he didn't feel like it, or if it was because he was back to using his cane again he wouldn't know. Money was slowly slipping due to his lack of a job, but John didn't even notice. He didn't even notice that someone had been making generous donations into his account either. Nor did he notice the stack of bills and taxes outside his door slowly start to disappear. And now his life had become dull and boring. If he noticed or not, but it was highly unlikely. It missed that spark it once had, that jolt of energy, that magnificent drive his life gave him and now John didn't seem to care.

If _**he**_ was there, he would probably say, "Dear God John, since when did you become so dull? You would think Anderson has been trying to wiggle his way into your brain. If he can even do that, but I highly doubt it." and with a flick of his coat the man would smirk and soon after John would be smiling along with him. There would be a flurry, a burst and twirl of colours and the pair would be out the door and soon John didn't want to think about anything else.

He didn't _**want**_ anything else.

Before he moved to Baker Street, before he came home from Afghanistan, he knew what he wanted most in his life. He would come back from his service and find a woman. A charming, beautiful, intelligent woman. There would be a perfect meeting, at a coffee shop where she would recommend a type of coffee and she would smile. They would fall in love after that and John would propose in that very same coffee shop. He would settle down with her and they would have 3 wonderful children and he would grow old and watch them grow up. He would retire and they would move to some nice retirement home and live out the rest of their days there. That was what he had planned for his life. A simple, perfect life.

Once he _**had**_ moved to Baker Street however, that whole plan was flushed out the window. It was like he had come along and taken a look, examined it with hardly any care and laughed as he threw it in a bin. He didn't want any of that anymore anyway. He was happy enough to solve crimes, and he would blog about the adventures he had with his flat mate, and he was happy to work in the clinic and come home to heads in the fridge. He was happy with the holes the walls, and takeaway dinners from the Chinese down the road. He was happy inspecting crimes scenes and dead bodies and watching his friend insult people. He was happy getting kidnapped, and saving his best friend, and smiling at him in the middle of a murder because he just _**could**_.

He didn't need the wife or the house. He didn't need to think about growing old because that was so far away, and why did he need to? Everything was how it should be. Nothing needed to be changed, or tweaked or examined. It just was and continued. John wanted this to happen forever and always, and couldn't see it ever stopping.

So when it did stop, so did John. Not a halt and 'drop everything' stop. More like the slowing down of a wind-up soldier. All up-and-go, seeming like they can work forever. Smiling, walking, doing what they do best; carry on. And then, eventually, they gradually slow with time and come to a stop. So now John had stopped. But he let himself stop, mind you. His thoughts, his life. Everything came to a halt and it had no intention of starting back up again for anyone or anything.

But then, _**he**_ was never just anyone though, was he?

Naturally, in a time of misery for a person, they try their best to pick themselves up straight away. There are always people around to help pick them up, siblings, parents, friends, co-workers; anyone that is willing. John had no one. Or no one that he would talk to. Mrs Hudson didn't want to bother him as she was afraid of mothering him too much already, and Harry was out of the question (if she even qualified for the job). He didn't feel like talking to Lestrade, and Mycroft was too much of a pompous git. So he built him himself. It took time, yes, but he got there in the end. So after a year of taking his time, he finally got out.

By get out, I don't mean that he stood up and walked right out of that flat and into the world, embracing everything that came his way. In a better sense of words, it would be like he 'snapped out' of it. He just stopped sitting around one day and he began continuing on. He woke up one day after falling asleep in the chair again, made himself a cup of tea, and continued on. Most people worried, because maybe John Watson had finally snapped. Everyone would know why, the unspoke truth in the air to confirm all suspicions. But he just stopped waiting for something, and began looking for it instead.

He called up Sarah, asking for his job back to start. She happily complied and John got straight to work. He walked to Tesco once a week (when his limp wasn't getting the better of him), he started to buy the milk, and he cleaned the flat. He washed, he cooked, he cleaned, he worked and he started to _live_ again. Not how he used to, no, but he did start to live. And thus began John's life once more. A regular, simple life. Normal. Boring. Mundane. If he remembered the life he first planned for himself, then he might be barely close to it right now. He might have noticed that he was on the right track of his first dream, his first life. He still doesn't notice when he meets a teacher named Mary Morstan at the tube. He doesn't notice he's close when she gives him her number and a small smile. John doesn't notice because he chooses not to. He doesn't notice because he doesn't want to notice.

Mrs Hudson suggests that he should ask her out one day while she helps with the laundry, that they should go have coffee to see how things work out. He sees her smile with care and so he nods and kisses her cheek in reassurance. When they do go out for coffee the next week, John leaves early instead. He fakes a text and says his boss's mother has needed to go to hospital, that he has to take over her job at the surgery. When he does leave though, he goes straight back to the flat, makes a cup of tea and gives a sigh of relief. He knew she was boring when she opened her mouth to talk about her recent trip to Iceland. And that's when it hits him. That past life he once wanted. It is so close and now he just pushed it away. So he takes a sip of his tea and begins to read todays paper.

Because nothing could compete with what he had. And nothing ever will.

At the end of the third year, John is better. He smiles, and is the same as he always has been. He goes to the pub with Lestrade on a Tuesday, and he helps Mrs Hudson bake for when Mrs Turner comes over for tea on a Sunday evening. He has been promoted at the surgery for all his hard work and commitment and everything is how it should be. Lestrade even asks for his help on crime scenes ever now and then and John knows it will never be the same, but he potters along anyway and tries his best to help out. He can help with something's, small things he has picked up from _**him**_, and it's not the same, everyone knows that but they go along with it anyway. He'll point out an affair, or a where the person might have been earlier that day. He was even able to help wrap up a case once when he was able to see that one of the past bodies had once been frozen to keep its condition since bloody Anderson couldn't do his job properly. He enjoys it. It's not what it once was, but he still does. And everything that has happened that year for him seems to speed things up a little more. Before he knows it Christmas has rolled round and he has just finished helping Mrs Hudson take a turkey out of her large oven.

Mrs Hudson invites John down for dinner as per normal, along with more of their friends and colleges. Molly and Greg come along, and the four of them sit around the table and drink and eat and celebrate the festive season. They exchange gifts and pleasantries as they sip their wine or brandy. They talk about the year, and small things that have happened. Molly has found a nice man (not a mass murderer or psychotic masochist, Greg and John both checked), and they have been living together for about 6 months. They congratulate her, and Mrs Hudson pats her cheek and they laugh and John smiles happily as Mrs Hudson brings out the pudding and they all toast with a fresh glass of wine.

When John sees Molly and Greg off, he kisses Mrs Hudson and thanks her for the meal, wishing her a Merry Christmas. He makes his way to the flat slowly, his full belly making it slightly difficult and puts on the kettle. The flat is quite devoided of decorations, but Mrs Hudson insisted that he put up a Christmas tree, so he placed a small one in the corner for her only. He smiles slightly to himself at the fond memory of the woman and her mothering qualities. He leans on the back of his chair for a moment, looking around at the way the woman decorated the flat before the kettle whistles, and he slowly moves to the kitchen to take it off the hob. It's when he does so that he hears his doorbell ringing, and inwardly sighs because right now all he wants is to put his feet up and he can't exactly do that right now when someone is pestering him to open up. He would leave it, but something tells him it is most likely a group of young carollers and the good man in him doesn't want to be an old Scrooge. He gradually moves to the staircase, limp taking its toll as he makes his way down and reaches out to open the door. It swings open in front of him, and he looks down expectantly, a small fake smile plastering itself to his lips and he mentally frowns as he is not faced with a group of carollers, but in fact a rather tall man.

A very tall and rather familiar man.

Now most people would gasp. They would take a step back and scream. Some would even start to mutter gibberish and point like crazy. A few to even panic and slam the door until they were calm enough to open it again. But since John knew it was impossible to be looking into the face of his dead flatmate, he did none of those things. Instead, he opened the door a little wider, turned and walked straight back up the stairs. He left it open, yes. But he did not invite the man in. He left that up to him. It was not his choice.

Once John made his way into the flat though, he sat down in his chair and looked at his lap. Not in an awkward way, he folded his legs and continued to stare at invisible lint that was on his trousers. He was quite certain that his blood pressure had risen, and he could hear his heartbeat in his ears along with his rapid breathing, starting to turn shallow. The way his leg cramped up and the stinging sensation it was giving him was another contributing factor that he might have finally flipped the lid. He didn't raise his head when the footsteps slowly made their way up the steps. He didn't look up when the door creaked slightly as it was pushed open wider. He didn't look up when he could hear a coat being hung up, or a scarf lightly placed onto the lounge. He didn't even look up when the friction of legs hitting leather squeaked through the eerily quiet flat.

He looked up when a faint voice whispered his name though. A deep, quiet voice that didn't sound like John thought it would, but all too much the same at the same time. His unsteady head rose slowly, his eyes traveling along winding legs and nimble fingers. He paused once he reached his eyes. Grey eyes stared back at John, and if he thought he was in the right state of mind he would swear that they were slightly wet but he handed that over to the rest of his insane mind. He didn't stop at his eyes to make it romantic. He wasn't expecting a dramatic exclamation of love as he looked into his loves eyes. It was just confirmation that he was there.

He looked over the man for a moment. Just to anchor him into the moment. Something to make sure his mind wasn't trying to bring itself to shreds. Because when he normally saw _**him**_, it was always blood soaked, or malicious, or uncaring, mouth twisted into a disgusted scowl and always something John feared.

Never was he sad. Not once. That's why John knew within his gut that this was different,

He rose for a moment, his throbbing leg making him wobble for a moment and the ghost quickly stood as if he was afraid John would collapse right there. But he steadied himself and balanced for a moment until his eyes slowly drifted over to the figure and looked up at his face. The ghost looked down. So John hesitantly raised his hand in front of his body, giving it over to the dead man as a deciding weight. He looked at it for a moment, as if unsure what he should be doing until he finally rested his hand upon Johns'. And John could feel the warmth, and the blood through the skin and he knew he wasn't crazy and that the man was real and this this wasn't a dream and he should be dead but he's not and – oh god.

John gripped the hand on his, his fingers digging into the palm of the figures. It's real. _**He's**_ real and he knows that he can't be but he is and that's all that matters. He can feel the flesh on his hands and the fact that he's holding him confirms everything he thought about the man being alive. And then the hand is leaving his because the man is now on the ground and it takes John a moment and a group of stinging knuckles to notice that he punched the man to the floor.

The man clutches at his nose for a moment, a small amount of blood seeping through porcelain fingers and a small amount of panic rushes through him as he see's familiar blood and quickly kneels to the man and places a hand on his cheek to push away the bloodied fingers. He's mumbling something under his breath, and whether the two of them notice neither say a word, they don't speak of it. John looks over the nose, glad that if he was actually paying more attention that it would have been much worse. But because it isn't, he'll leave it at that, so he pulls his hands away and looks at the man.

"John" the man says, and it's barely above a whisper this time, and John isn't certain that he heard it at all, but the look on the man's face says otherwise. And for the first time, in a long time, John says what he's always wanted to say.

"_Sherlock"_ And so John smiles. And this time he's not alone.

In a matter of words, things return to normal at Baker Street. It takes a while, but it is getting there. After that night of confirmation, John went and put the kettle back on while Sherlock and sat back down in his chair to nurse his tender nose. The pain was fine, Sherlock could deal with that. So he sat and waited as John continued to make two cups of tea and sit in front of Sherlock before handing one over to him. And he didn't need to say anything, they both knew that. John just took a slow sip of his tea and Sherlock began explaining in full detail. John would nod when he was meant to, and frowned when he wanted. And Sherlock continued to explain the three years for John, a certain look that made John slightly confused. Sherlock was waiting, in all honesty, for John to break. Because when your best friend rises from the grave on Christmas Eve like some bloody miracle, you would expect him to actually crack instead of offering you inside for a calm chat and a cuppa.

Once he was finished however, John drowned the rest of his tea and placed it on the table beside him. He licked his lips briefly, twining his fingers together and hanging his head. Taking it all in, Sherlock had thought, and waited until John was ready to speak again. He placed his hands together and moved them under his chin as he watched this man, this brilliant, smart man take in everything Sherlock had just explained and digest it thoroughly. They sat for a while, Sherlock wasn't sure how long, but he did know that it was taking longer than he thought. Soon, John slowly raised his head and looked over at Sherlock, thin lips opening slightly as he breathed out a few words.

"So Moriarty had snippers." He stated. Sherlock gave a brief nod.

"Yes. One for you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson."

"And if you didn't jump?"

"You would have all been killed." It was more confirmation then anything for John. That's what he needed right now.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he muttered, frown lines becoming visible on his aging face. Sherlock looked into his eyes for a moment, before looking around and settling on the make-shift Christmas tree.

"I told you, if you or anyone else knew of the plan then everything would have—"

"But did you know of his plan?" John threw out quickly, moving forward slightly in his chair. John could feel anger begin to rise, and quite frankly he didn't want to let it down. He could feel it. _**Sherlock**_ could feel it, and yet they both knew where this was heading. He didn't show it on his face, he just kept it to himself as he breathed out evenly.

"Of course I knew of his plan John, why else would I have done all of this? You think I would have gone without any sort of plan at all?" Sherlock gave a mock smile, which soon turned into a smirk as he turned back to look at John in his chair. But John wasn't in his chair; he was in the kitchen now. Sherlock frowned, standing up and walking to follow behind John. "What is it now?" Sherlock huffed out, slightly tired of John's need to 'get some air'.

"So you knew." John said again.

"Yes. _**Again**_.". he could practically hear the eye roll, and he clenched his teeth tightly. John swivelled on his feet, facing Sherlock as he pointed an accusing finger into his fragile chest.

"You knew, the whole _fucking_ time you knew, and you never bothered to tell me. And don't you dare say because it could ruin any plans, don't you even think about it. Because you could have told me before, you could have given me a hint, a sign. Anything to let me know that you weren't in a box and five feet under Sherlock, because I think I deserved to know."

John was breathing heavily after that. He was probably 30 centimetres away from Sherlock's face, and he could feel John's ragged breath huffing onto his lips. He let his hand drop back to his side. His breath slowed. He swallowed thickly and soon his eyes began to get slightly glassy and he was sniffling and utterly embarrassed now and wanted to leave but he couldn't and – he stopped. Thinking too fact, he couldn't. Sherlock was back, and all he had done so far was create chaos to John's new life and it felt amazing. It was amazing. He admitted it, and that was all he needed now.

"Of course you do." Sherlock muttered, avoiding Johns' eyes. "But if it meant I could keep you safe then I would do it all over again."

Whatever possessed John to kiss Sherlock, he won't really know. Sherlock probably doesn't even know, but they can both make a wild guess. The night ended with kisses and sweat, skin against skin and muffled noises. John lying on Sherlock's chest as sweat cooled in a thin sheen over his back. Lithe fingers mussed their way through the medium tuffs of John's sandy hair and John drew patterns lazily onto Sherlock's stomach. That's all they did for the night. They didn't need to speak any more of what happened, because that was all three years ago, and there was no need to put them both through it all again. Sun peaked in through the small window in the corner of the room and the light made John giddy. There were more kisses, and warms embraces. They cleaned themselves and soon they were sitting side by side on the lounge while they sipped coffee. Sherlock pressed his chest to John's back and wrapped his left arm around John's waist to keep him to himself. He breathed in the scent he missed as he buried his nose into the back of John's neck. John sighed in content and he smiled to himself.

This was right.

They were right.

He wanted this with all his heart and John knew he was never going to let it go. He wanted to wake up with that feeling ever morning where he would look at Sherlock's face, still asleep. He wanted to feel Sherlock wrapped around him as afterglow washed over the two of them. He wanted that so badly and now it had been laid out in front of him and John had just been handed the key. Warm air soon blew over the skin on John's neck, and he shivered lightly at the feeling. Sherlock's nose pressed into the skin, breathing gently over him before pressing a single kiss.

"John…" he began, and John only turned his head slightly, still looking down into his coffee mug. "I'm sorry. So deeply sorry, I never wanted to cause you any harm."

His arms tightened around John for a brief moment, and he couldn't help but smile. "It's alright. I have you back now anyway." A small huff of breath came out of Sherlock's lips, and John took it as a huff of laughter before he turned his head completely to look at Sherlock. "You better not be planning to go anyway for a long time though." He gave a smirk this time, and Sherlock's lips twitched into a lazy smile.

"No. Only if you're coming with me." John smiled, leaning in slowly before Sherlock bended his head and pressed his lips to Johns'. They were going to be alright.

If John looked over at the life he once wanted; he would see he was nowhere close. There was no wife and picket fence. Maybe there would be children in the future, who knew. There was no stay home wife to clean the house, and no 9-to-5 shifts. Instead he ran after the love of his life as they hunted down criminals and saved London together. This was nothing like he first had thought. Nothing life he first wanted. And John was glad. Extremely glad.

Because he would never want anything else.

**Ah! I hope you like it! Please review, I would really appreciate it! So I hoped you liked your present! It's been so hectic for me this Christmas season, and I was originally going to write heaps more but I was scared I wasn't going to make it in time (Whoopie, look who was right this time) so I just decided to get it to you now. Message me and I'll continue on. I was going to make it parentlock? And if I got time, maybe go through the rest of their lives. So tell me what you want! Merry Christmas!**


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